


Stepping Stones

by eiraparr8



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:58:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eiraparr8/pseuds/eiraparr8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The nights when she sits with Petyr are therefore a relief, a reassurance that she’s not that girl, that she’ll never be that girl again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stepping Stones

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimers apply-- these characters, sadly, are not mine.

He doesn’t look anything like Joffrey, but sometimes Harold Hardyng reminds Sansa so much of the former king that her smile freezes a little and she has to stop herself from cringing inside. True, he looks every inch the gallant, blithely handsome knight of songs and tales, much more than Joffrey ever did even in the beginning, and he has an easy charm that makes it easier for most to overlook his temper, his boorish habits. It’s those qualities that make Sansa think of another handsome boy whose smiles once made her heart pound. His smile is too familiar, he’s too much like a knight from tales to be real. It makes her uneasy, queasy inside even as she dips into the guise of the old, stupid Sansa who smiles lightly and blushes deeply whenever Harry smiles or even looks at her. _It would be easy_ , she thinks, _for this to become real_ , for her to become that girl again. Easy for the mask to take over. 

The nights when she sits with Petyr are therefore a relief, a reassurance that she’s not that girl, that she’ll never be that girl again. 

“You’re doing beautifully,” he tells her one evening. The dinner party is long over, and the fire in his solar is low as he sits besides her. “They’re all falling for you, not just the Young Falcon. It’s as if you’re already their beloved queen,” he laughs a little, but it’s a soft laugh, one that doesn’t make her flinch. 

He traces her cheek before pulling her face towards his, his lips soft and coaxing. As his hand begins to rub her back, Sansa relaxes, her body slowly sinking and softening against his. As his tongue begins to twist with hers she thinks that she’d much rather kiss Petyr than Harry. More and more she feels safe only when she’s alone with Petyr, seeing everyone else as a threat and a danger. Yet it’s Petyr who could destroy her in an instant, Petyr who’s made her so alone, Petyr who’s worked at her and made her give into him. 

She ends up pressed against the cushions, her arms snaked around his neck and her skirts rumpled. Petyr’s body on hers is a heavy, comforting weight and she sighs softly when he begins to kiss her neck. The sigh is both a gift (for him) and an embarrassment (for her), a sign of how far she has to go to control her responses and emotions. His hand strokes her leg and she arches against him; even as she bites back a moan as his hand skirts beneath her smallclothes, she flashes back to Joffrey groping her, Harry leering at her after he’d had too much to drink at dinner, his smile twisting into a lascivious leer in her mind. Her body tenses, only for a second, but he notices, of course, his lips returning to hers and she can’t think after that, all-too-eagerly opening her mouth. 

It’s startling when he pulls away, leaving her sprawled on the sofa, cold and alone, still breathing heavily. She hates how he does that, toying with her, playing with her until she’s almost completely gone and then dropping her; he makes it look easy, but from the quick glance she gets of his eyes, she knows he was almost as lost as she was and that makes her smile a little. 

Petyr strides back to his desk, a small, pleased smile on his face as he pours some wine. For once he’s quiet, not trying to make her blush with his sly tongue or suddenly talking about vague plans and strange events. He watches her and Sansa remains still, aware of how loose and wanton she looks, clothes and hair completely mussed, a warm flush across her face. For a long moment they stay like that, eyes locked as if in some secret, private dual, each daring the other on, neither willing to look away. 

Petyr breaks first, eyes going to some book on his desk, and Sansa’s smile widens at this, the thought that she can make him break, even if it’s only for the briefest of moments and only temporary. 

He doesn’t look at her as he says, “It’s late, Alayne.”

A short sentence, one that contains no command, but she knows it for a dismissal. Slowly she stands, careful to readjust her dress in case she meets anyone in the corridors. Before leaving, she goes to him and brushes her lips against his cheek, her eyes lowered as she murmurs, “Goodnight, my lord.”

She’s impressed by the control he shows, that he simply lets her walk away. 

*

The light is still dim, morning only just beginning to dawn when Sansa wakes up, vaguely aware that someone else is in the room. It’s become almost normal for him to appear in her room at any given moment, to barge in without knocking, and it both unsettles and thrills her. 

As she turns towards him she’s careful to keep the blankets close, pulling them up to her chin. Petyr looks perfectly at home as he sits in a chair that he’d pulled closer to the bed, flipping through papers as if her bed chamber is his solar. Despite the early hour he’s already washed and dressed, and she wonders if he’d slept at all. It’s not easy for her to picture him asleep or even resting at all; she imagines that his mind is constantly plotting and scheming. 

“Sorry to wake you,” Petyr says, not sounding apologetic in the slightest.

“Good morning.” Her voice is still sleepy and a little hoarse, and she sees his lips curl in a small, almost secret smile. 

He leans closer, his face hovering by hers. “If only the Young Falcon could see you know. You look like you’re still half asleep, dreaming about something... perhaps even him. You look so content...” he trails his fingers across her hair, smoothing it down. “And yet hungry for so much more.”

Slowly, his fingers lace through her hair, curling around the loose, escaped strands. Even though it’s the wrong color, a limp brown that Sansa both hates and is oddly grateful for, Petyr often touches her hair, letting his hand rest on her head or carding through it, allowing the strands to slip through his fingers slowly. Sometimes she wonders if he’s imagining her with her true hair color when he looks at her. Sometimes she’s sure of it. 

For someone who speaks more often than not, his eyes glittering as he chats and jests, he’s being strangely silent now. His eyes dart around her face, and if she didn’t know better, she almost think that he...but no, she must be mistaking that look, her understanding of that look. 

Slowly, Petyr brings his other hand up to hover by her face. Even with the slight distance she can feel the heat radiating from him and she wants to lean into it, even as she lies and tells herself that it’s only because the room is cold and any source of warmth would be welcome. There’s a softness to his gaze that she finds disconcerting--he never allows his weaknesses to show; unlike her, he has so few, though she knows her mother is--was--is the most glaringly obvious one. She hopes that she’s not becoming a weakness for him-- where would she land, what would she become, if he fell? 

His fingers lightly touch her cheek, barely grazing her skin. Recklessly she turns her head slightly so his fingers rest on her lips, and she begins to slowly kiss the tips of his fingers, only looking up at him when she pulls away. Instantly his lips are on hers, attacking her, his tongue teasing and taunting and almost lightening quick before he slows the kiss to a torturous, painfully slow speed. One of his hands is still buried in her hair, forcing her head to turn and follow the kiss; the other traces her jaw and yet she still wants more of him, part of her hoping that they’ll repeat last night, his body pressing against hers. As she fights back the moan that’s threatening to spill out and completely embarrass and reveal her (as if she hasn’t done that already), she loops her arms around his neck, tugging lightly at his hair as she arches against him. If his lips weren’t so busy with hers, she knows he’d be smirking. 

As he moves to lie on top of her, she finds herself cursing the pile of blankets that separate them and begins to fumble and kick at them; he’s laughing now as he kisses her throat, but apparently he sees the advantage as well, his hand skimming her body. It’s both horrifying and strangely thrilling, she thinks, that the only thing that separates her bare skin from his hand is the thick shift that still doesn’t cover enough of her. As if he senses her apprehension, his lips return to hers in a soft kiss, one that’s not so demanding or greedy; it’s designed to be soft and slow, a coaxing kiss that’s like those of the past-- a ploy, an act, a scheme to reassure her, and she knows this. Yet it works. She’s the one who pulls him closer, cupping his face, whimpering as he begins to trace her body again, lingering by her breast and slowly caressing it through the fabric. Strangely, she doesn’t mind that she’s allowing her reactions to be so open and obvious, though she’ll blush later when she thinks about it, how she was (is) with him, as readable as she was in her old life. She wonders if he’ll be pleased or angry with her behavior; perhaps a combination of the two. 

When they do stop (her nightgown is rumpled, her hair completely mussed, and he is very much a reflection of that), Petyr eases off of her, keeping his arms around her and still lazily tracing her hip. He plants soft, quiet kisses on her neck, behind her ear, his breath hot against her skin. She places her hands over his, tugs his arms so they’re tighter; it’s been so long since she’s felt comfortable with someone touching her, and when this first started, she thinks that that was part of the appeal, being held. There’s a soft, light smile on her face--others wouldn’t see it as a smile, it’s so faint, but she knows it’s there, just as she knows he’s smirking. 

“What did you want to see me about?” she asks. “That is--it’s so early.”

He laughs a little, a laugh that’s different from the one he uses in public and laces his fingers through hers. “Your hair needs to be re-dyed before the feast this evening.”

“It does?” she thinks of how her hair must look now, the red beginning to shine through in certain lights. “Very well. Anything else?”

He turns her in his arms so she’s looking at him. “I’m quite convinced there isn’t.”

Her cheeks burn as he kisses her. It’s those kisses she thinks of when she’s with Harry, those kisses that bring a smile to her face even though Harry is young and handsome, like a knight from a tale while Petyr is... old and dangerous. They’re not the kisses she dreamed of as a girl, but she’ll never be that girl again. 


End file.
